More Than a Feeling
by hoosiergirl81
Summary: A werewolf hunt in remote woods takes a life-threatening turn when Sam and Dean are separated, and even the weather is trying to kill them. Dean finds himself indebted to a woman who reads him like a book. With only one silver bullet left, he's got to protect them both from werewolves, and find Sam before it's too late. But earning her trust may be the toughest part of the job.
1. Chapter 1

A twig snapped beneath Dean's boot.

 _Damn_.

He turned a slow 360, gun extended. Hunting in the woods sucked. Nothing but trees and bushes, aka cover for the creepy crawlies to ambush him from. Constant noises: rustling pine needles, creaking branches, calling birds—aka false alarms distracting him from the sound of footsteps. And this particular forest was about three hours from the nearest decent burger.

He scanned the ground, looking for any sign of footprints or crushed underbrush. Nothing. He took several careful steps to his right and peered down into the deep ravine again. No sign of it. Maybe Sam was having better luck on the north side. Although if he were, Dean would have heard a shot by now.

He resumed his route along the south side of the ravine, senses on full alert. He didn't want to leave Idaho without finishing this job. It had already been a doozy. In fact, he was down to his last bullet. Before they'd split off, he'd tossed his extra mag to Sam, who'd been empty. Dean had played it off like he had a third one in his back pocket. Sam wouldn't have taken it otherwise. The situation wasn't ideal, but one bullet was better than none.

He'd make the shot count.

An icy breeze cut through all four layers he was wearing—he'd added a heavy coat over his usual tee, flannel and jacket. His ears stung from the cold. Something wet touched his forehead. He looked up: snow. Big, soft flakes filtered through the pine branches overhead. According to the weather forecast, the snow wasn't supposed to start for another two hours at least. _You had one job, jackasses._ He set his jaw and faced forward again. Snow would make it easier for him to track the wolf—and for it to track him.

He shook off that last thought. He was the hunter here.

Another gust of wind squealed around the trees and sent a flurry of snowflakes needling into his face. He raised an arm over his eyes. Beneath the wail of the wind came a rhythmic sound: footfalls in swift succession.

He dropped his arm and raised his gun, but the werewolf was already on top of him. It snarled and knocked his gun hand back to the side, but he managed to hang on to the piece. A mouthful of protruding, yellowed teeth came at his face in a blur. He dodged the bite and landed an awkward, left-handed punch to the side of its head. He regained his grip on the gun, found the trigger, swung it upward—but not fast enough. A deep, fiery streak of pain raked across his left ribs, tearing a yell out of him. The other clawed hand smacked the gun down. It thudded onto a bed of brown pine needles.

The werewolf snarled again, baring unnaturally long, sharp teeth. It wore a dingy gray jacket, adding to the overall wolfish effect. Its tangled, light brown hair was turning dark and wet from the snow. "Why couldn't you just leave us alone?" it growled.

"Just doing my job."

"You killed them!" It swiped at his face with a hairy hand.

Dean ducked the blow, and gave the monster a crooked smile. "Don't worry. You'll be together again real soon."

The wolf gave a vicious snarl, and hurled itself at him. Dean took a neat sidestep, caught it by the back of its jacket collar, and used its momentum to swing it right over the edge of the ravine. A single, fading howl of surprise and fury ended in a sharp _crack,_ followed by tumbling, sliding noises. Then silence.

Dean laid a hand against the left side of his chest, over the shredded strips of his coat. Warm wetness soaked up through his equally torn jacket, and his hand came away red. _Son of a bitch._ He loved that jacket.

Still, he shouldn't have tossed the wolf. That was a split-second decision, and it was pretty awesome. But only a silver bullet would kill it for sure. He'd lost his silver knife in the confusion of the big fight earlier.

He bent to pick up his gun, and fresh pain roared through his ribcage. Bright red droplets spattered onto the thin layer of snow covering the ground. He growled through gritted teeth and pressed his left arm across his side and chest. He snatched up the gun, stepped to the edge, and peered over.

Loose rocks and scattered pine needles blanketed the ravine's steep slopes. The rocks and needles were quickly gaining a wet, white blanket of their own. Far down, nearly at the bottom, the wolf's booted feet stuck out from behind a boulder—which completely blocked the rest of its body. Dean walked twenty yards along the rim, but that only hid the wolf completely from view. Twenty yards the other direction didn't help either. No clear shot.

He needed to hike down there and finish this job. This wasn't just a mutt, some poor schmuck who'd gotten bitten. This was a pureblood, obviously, considering it was wolfed out at eleven in the morning. Just like the rest of the pack.

The adrenaline pulsing through him slowly faded. Burning, throbbing pain took its place. He pulled his left arm away from his chest. The coat sleeve was already soaked.

He eyed the slope, searching for possible routes of descent. The options were steep, steeper, and suicide. And all three guaranteed to be slippery as hell under this snow.

Even if he made it down alive, he'd never make it back up.

 _Son of a_ bitch _._

He gazed ahead, to the west. He and Sam were supposed to meet up at the end of the ravine. Another mile at least, if the geezer back at the motel in town could be believed. Dean hated to leave, but without cell service, Sam would never find him down there. He already needed what felt like a couple hundred stitches. And the snow wasn't letting up.

They'd just have to come back later and finish it off. If it was even still here by then. After one last glare at the wolf's boots, he forced himself to walk away.

Soon, trudging through the deepening snow grew more difficult with each step. His torn skin burned, but the rest of him was freezing. He wondered if he already had an infection. No telling what that thing had under its nasty nails.

He'd made fun of Sam for wearing gloves and a hat. Teeth chattering, he imagined the smug face his brother would make when they saw each other. He clamped his teeth together.

Snow swirled around his head, obscuring the way. He veered a little left, just to be safe. He didn't want to risk slipping into that ravine. Head bowed against the wind, he pushed forward. One foot in front of the other. Don't think about the pain or the cold. Just think about getting to Sam. Then Baby. She was a couple miles away, parked along the side of the road in this godforsaken forest. No problem. Sam would get him there. Just keep going.

A root hidden beneath the snow caught the toe of his boot, and he landed hard on his knees. He didn't have the energy to curse. He looked around for the first time in…crap, how long?

The ravine was gone.

A jolt of fear streaked through him. Where was it? Had he passed the end without realizing? How far back? Or had he veered off course to the south? His head felt thick and warm. Come to think of it, his whole body felt warm. That was nice.

No, not nice. That was a sign of hypo— something or other. His brain felt like grinding gears. What was the word? Sam would know. He knew all the big words. Sam was such a nerd. Where was he anyway?

At the end of the ravine. Right.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to backtrack. He pushed himself to his feet and turned around. The forest spun around him. He hit the ground again and fell flat on his back. The impact sent a brief, dull ache through his chest and side, but it quickly faded into numbness. Lying there, surrounded by tall trees and floating flakes felt like being inside a snow globe. So peaceful.

He'd rest here like this, just for a minute. Just long enough to regain some strength.

Like the snow drifting silently around him, his eyes drifted slowly closed.


	2. Chapter 2

Ruthie pulled on her heavy coat, gloves, and hat, and stepped out the back door of her dad's cabin. She grabbed the wheelbarrow and headed through the little clearing toward the woodpile. The snow had started far earlier than predicted—naturally. At noon, the forest was already dark with thick clouds. She squinted up at the sky. She'd gotten a feel for snowstorms over the years, and she had a hunch this one was the real deal.

Good. Several quiet days completely alone were just what she needed.

Maybe several weeks.

Maybe the rest of her life.

As she neared the pile of expertly chopped firewood, a strange shape on the ground up ahead caught her eye. Sort of long and low, covered in a thin layer of snow. Weird. It was shaped a lot like a person.

She stopped, immediately thinking of the rumors circulating around town about bodies turning up in the woods lately. Mutilated bodies, ripped open, hearts missing—usually other organs, too. Most likely explanation was they had a man-eating wolf on their hands, if not a whole pack.

Ruthie stared at the still shape on the ground. She didn't really want to see anything like that. But then she imagined calling the rangers to come check it out, in this weather, without even knowing if it was a person, much less whether he or she was alive or not. No, that wouldn't do.

 _Come on, Ruthie. You can handle blood and guts. You do it all the time. Used to, anyway._

Although, to be fair, handling it at work was one thing. In her own backyard was another.

Leaving the wheelbarrow behind, she stepped cautiously toward the shape. The closer she got, the more her heart inched up into her throat. It definitely looked like a person. She couldn't see any blood or entrails strewn around, so that was encouraging.

Now, after coming up close, she could see it definitely was a man. The snow layer was so thin she could make out the outline of his face. There was more snow beneath him than on top, so he couldn't have been here long. For the first time, she thought there might be a chance he was still alive. She pulled off a glove with her teeth and felt under his jaw for a pulse.

There! Stronger than she'd expected for anyone lying unconscious in the snow. A few snowflakes landed over his bluish, slightly parted lips and soon melted. Another good sign. She reached out and brushed the snow from his face, and her breath caught in her throat.

 _Holy crap._ What was a male model doing clear out here? More importantly: why wasn't this idiot wearing a hat or gloves? And most importantly: why was he unresponsive?

Ruthie swept more snow off of him, working her way down from his neck. Halfway down his torso, she found the answer to her most important question. Deep gouges slashed through his coat and everything under it. The blood had mostly turned black. There were five cuts; the top one shorter than the others…almost as though it had been made by a thumb. As though a human hand had done this. Of course, that was impossible. Bear, maybe? No, he'd be in much worse shape if it had been a bear. Wolverine?

Her eyes jumped up to the surrounding woods. Was it still nearby? Had he fought it off? And seriously, what the hell was this pretty boy doing out here?

Whoever he was, she needed to get him inside and give him first aid, fast. The nearest ambulance was probably thirty miles away, and the snow was coming down harder now. She scanned the man again. One eighty-five if he weighed an ounce. She glanced back at the cabin. Fifty yards, give or take. Okay. How was she going to do this? She looked around for inspiration. Her eyes fell on the clearing, the woodpile—the wheelbarrow.

She'd have to make it work.


	3. Chapter 3

The ache in Dean's side dragged him out of sleep. His bleary eyes first took in rough wooden rafters, then the multicolored quilt spread over him. He was lying propped up on a double bed. Log walls on either side. A small, dim lamp on his left cast yellow light from the corner. Just beyond it was a window, its blinds drawn closed. Also on his left, near the end of the bed, a door with a deadbolt—an exit. Along the other wall sagged an overstuffed recliner and an old-fashioned, black, potbelly stove. He lifted his gaze past the foot of the bed, and squinted. The lights were on in a tiny kitchen. They traced the silhouette of a woman.

A countertop stood between them, and apparently a stove as well, since she appeared to be stirring a pot of something. She had a little nose that turned up a bit at the end, and dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Never taking his eyes off her, Dean slid a hand beneath his back, reaching for his waistband…

His gun was gone.

Hell, his _pants_ were gone. He was wearing his boxer briefs and the quilt. He ran his hand gingerly over his chest and left side: all covered with gauze and tape. Another quick sweep of the cabin turned up no sign of his clothes or his weapon. The only visible exit was the deadbolted door on the wall to his left. His eyes narrowed as they flicked back to the girl.

Steam rose in little wisps around her face. She lifted a wooden spoon to her lips and tasted, then shook some salt into the pot before stirring again.

Whatever it was, its rich aroma was making his mouth water. His stomach gave a long, loud growl. The woman paused, spoon hovering over the pot, and looked over at him.

"You're awake," she said. She set the spoon across the top of the pot and walked toward him.

He pushed himself up straighter in the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandages. She held out a hand. "No, no. Stay still." She came around the left side of the bed. He shifted right, muscles tensed, ready to fight at the first glimpse of black eyes or sharp teeth. She paused, examined his face, then took a step back.

"I'm Ruthie. I found you out there—" she indicated the door with a nod—"near the woodpile. You were soaked in blood. I got you inside and patched you up. As well as I could, anyway. You still need antibiotics."

Up close, her dark hair complemented smooth, olive skin and wide-set brown eyes. Barely-there freckles dusted her nose and cheekbones. Her slouchy gray sweater and black leggings told him she liked comfort—and that she was fit. Normally he'd conduct further observations, preferably over drinks. But not during a job gone sideways.

"Where are my clothes?" His voice sounded gruffer than usual. The cold hadn't done his throat any favors.

Her eyebrows rose a smidge, but she answered in the same calm tone as before. She nodded toward a little hallway leading off the right wall. "Your jeans are in the wash. Everything else is in there." She raised her chin toward the wood-burning stove.

He glared at her. "You burned my clothes?"

Her brows rose higher, and she crossed her arms. "Yes. Like I said, you were soaked in blood. I don't store biohazardous waste in my house. And they were shredded anyway. There was no salvaging them, trust me. I'll get you something else to wear."

"Great." He pushed himself up into a sitting position. Pain knifed through his torso, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Could you make it snappy? I've got somewhere to be."

She didn't move. "You're not going anywhere."

Dean turned his gaze back to the girl and stared her down—still no black eyes or fangs. But that didn't mean she wasn't an enemy. Why was she trying to keep him here? He didn't enjoy the idea of hitting that face. But he'd done worse. "Oh yeah? Who's gonna stop me?"

Without a word, she reached out and twisted the vertical bar hanging beside the blinds. They slowly opened, and Dean's stomach went into a free fall.

Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the snow drift piled halfway up the window.

"My guess is we got three or four feet," she said. "Deeper in the drifts, obviously. You wouldn't last an hour out there."

Dean stared out at the sea of snow, gray and ominous in the cloud-filtered moonlight. His voice dropped lower and more hoarse. "My brother's out there."

Ruthie's face paled, making the freckles stand out on her cheeks. She uncrossed her arms and stood straighter. "Since before the storm?"

He nodded.

"Did he get hurt, too?"

He shook his head. Not that he knew of, anyway.

She was quiet for a moment. "Is he pretty capable? Pretty smart?"

Dean nodded again, barely hearing her.

"Smarter than you?"

He ripped his gaze from the window to her serious face. "What?"

"Is he dressed for the Idaho wilderness when a snowstorm is on the way?"

Dean pictured Sam's big, dumb hat with the earflaps, the thick waterproof gloves, his ridiculous snow boots. "Yeah."

Ruthie visibly relaxed. "Okay. Then I'm sure he got somewhere safe. He's probably hunkered down somewhere warm, just like you."

Dean was already staring out the window again. "You got cell service here?"

"No."

"A land line?"

She shook her head. "Couldn't talk Dad into it. Said it would ruin the solitude."

Dean's jaw tightened, along with his fists. How was he supposed to sit here, not knowing where Sam was?

"Listen." Her voice interrupted his thoughts. "I get that you want to go find your brother. But it won't help him if you get lost and freeze to death in the woods. Even if you could somehow push through the snow, you'd reopen those lacerations. And even if the blood loss didn't kill you, the cold and wet would." She took a half step closer and gestured toward the little hallway. "In the morning, I'll shovel the front walk and make a path to my truck. There's a guy who lives down near town, Vern. He's got a tractor with a plow blade. He comes up and plows us out after big storms. I bet he'll be up by tomorrow afternoon."

Dean bit back a curse word and rubbed his forehead.

She continued. "Then we'll drive down into town and ask around about your brother. Maybe somebody saw him. Maybe he's even down there already. And if not, we can organize a search. Okay?"

Dean studied her face again. Her top lip pulled up a bit in the center, like the tip of her nose. Her clear brown eyes did nothing to set off his BS detector. "Why are you helping me?" He couldn't help the suspicious note in his tone.

Her head drew back, then tilted to one side. "Would you rather I'd left you out there?"

He took the edge off his voice. "No, but—"

"Would you have left me out there?"

The question caught him so off guard, he sat there like a mook, mouth hanging open. She just waited, head still tilted, gaze curious. He closed his mouth. "No. I wouldn't have left you."

"Okay, then." She said it as though that settled everything, then nodded at his chest. "I'd better take a look. I want to check for signs of infection. Is that alright with you…?"

She was waiting for a name. Until that wolf was dead, though, the less she knew, the better. "Bobby."

One dark brow inched up her forehead as she bent over him. She pulled down the quilt and gently peeled back the tape and gauze. "Uh-huh. You know how many meth-heads and wannabe gang-bangers give me fake names every week?"

Dean's head pulled back in surprise. "Are you a cop?"

She laughed. "No. Daughter of a retired one. I'm an ER nurse." She pulled off the last of the gauze, revealing the mess underneath. Black stitches and butterfly bandages pinched closed the ragged claw marks striping his chest and left side. One or two spaces between cuts were crusted with specks of dry blood, but she really had cleaned him up well. It couldn't have been easy.

"You know," she said, "I think the cold actually helped a lot. It slowed your heart rate, which reduced the blood loss."

"So you're saying hypothermia saved my life?" Hypothermia. That was the word.

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "No, the hypothermia just bought you some time. _I_ saved your life." Laughing eyes peeked up at him from under dark lashes, and her lips twitched.

"Yeah. About that. Thanks."

She shrugged. "Just doing my job." She gestured at her handiwork. "I ran out of sutures," she explained. "Had to use butterflies on the shallower parts."

"You keep sutures at home?"

She gave a half smile, but didn't look him in the eye. She kept up her close examination of his injuries. With the top of her head just inches from his face, he could smell her hair. It smelled nice. Fruity. Dean gave his head a quick shake, and took an interest in the snow drift outside the window.

"Because of my dad," she was saying. "Always chopping firewood or sawing something. He cut off his fingertip once. After that, I started keeping a well-stocked kit in the cabin. Gotta be self-sufficient out here."

"You must have a hell of a commute."

"Oh, no." She gave a quick, nervous laugh. "I don't live here. I mean, now I do. I've lived in Boise since college. That's where I work—worked. I'm just sort of…between jobs." She wouldn't make eye contact with him. Her cheeks were glowing.

Dean's eyebrows rose. An ER nurse between jobs? How was that possible? Unless she'd gotten fired. _Great_. He was at the mercy of a fired nurse. He glanced around the cabin in search of a change of subject. "So, where's your dad?"

Her lower lip trembled just before she blinked and turned away. She opened the drawer of the side table and pulled out fresh gauze and medical tape. "Just outside of town. In Pinewood Cemetery." She tore off a length of tape, still blinking hard.

So. She had a wound almost as fresh as his.

"I'm sorry," he said. "How long?"

"Just last month." She overlapped two large pieces of gauze, covering the bandages and stitches. "Cancer. It was terminal. He refused treatment. Said he wasn't going to die in a hospital. I came home to take care of him."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. He let a few quiet moments pass. "So, why are you still here instead of back in Boise?"

Her face tightened. She smoothed strips of tape over the edges of the gauze, then looked up at him. "There. No sign of infection yet, but I should check again in the morning. How's the pain?"

"I've had worse."

Her eyes widened. "Wow." She straightened and pulled the quilt up over his chest. "Well, that's good, because I don't have anything stronger than ibuprofen to give you, 'Bobby.'" She put air quotes around the name.

He gave her his best bashful smile, the one that never failed him in bars. "Alright. You got me. I'm John. John Campbell."

She stood still, studying him for so long that his smile faltered. Finally, she shrugged. "Look, if you don't want to tell me who you are, fine. But then I get to choose what to call you."

Dean frowned. She was good. It was unnerving.

Ruthie brought her palms together, prayerlike, and put her fingertips to her lips. Her eyes narrowed in careful consideration. Then, a decisive nod. "Christina."


	4. Chapter 4

The look on his face was even better than she'd anticipated. His open mouth and startled eyebrows contracted into a tough-guy glower.

"No."

Ah, the growly voice was back. She put her hands up in a helpless gesture, as though the situation were beyond her control. "Sorry, Christina. House rules."

His lips parted; his eyes rolled to the side. He looked as though he was starting to wish she had left him out in the snow.

Ruthie turned away and headed to the kitchen so he wouldn't see her fighting back a grin. "You hungry?"

"I'm fine," he said, a petulant note in his tone.

She almost snickered. Mr. Tough Guy was pouting. She reached the stove, and from the corner of her eye, saw him cross his arms over his chest in a huff. He immediately grimaced and unfolded them again, gritting his teeth.

She pretended she hadn't seen, and starting stirring again. "Well, I've got some homemade chicken broth here. I was just making it to freeze, but you can have some if you want. If you can keep broth down for a while, I've got beef stew in the oven."

The internal struggle spilled over onto his face. He glanced sideways at the pot, and his stomach rumbled audibly again. "Yeah, okay."

While she poured steaming broth from the saucepan into a large brown mug, she waged an internal battle of her own. He clearly didn't want to talk, but her curiosity was growing by the minute. Who was he? What was he doing out here? Why the secrecy? And what the hell had done that to him?

Carrying the mug to him, she decided she had nothing to lose. "So, if you don't mind my asking, what brought you out here? We don't get many out-of-towners."

He reached out to take the mug from her, and his fingers brushed hers. The touch zinged right up her arm, and unexpected heat rose in her cheeks. She hoped it wasn't visible.

He was eyeing her warily. "Hunting."

Why was he so determined to lie to her about everything? "Oh? Interesting. What were you hunting with a handgun, Christina?"

He stopped short in the middle of blowing on his broth. He raised his head and fixed her with an intense stare. "Where _is_ my gun, Ruthie?"

She forced herself to hold his gaze. Tried to act as though that look wasn't rattling her, as if the low rumble of his voice saying her name like that had no effect. "It's safe."

She thought he would press, but after another uncomfortable few seconds, he returned his attention to his mug. He took a tentative sip, and his eyebrows jumped up. "That's…wow." He took a longer swig. "That's really good."

Again with the heat in her cheeks. _Knock it off, Ruthie._ "Glad you like it. You need rest and comfort food. That's my professional opinion."

He nodded, but didn't stop gulping his broth.

"So," she ventured, "in your professional hunter's opinion, what did that?" She gestured at his chest.

He eyed her over the top of his mug, clearly hesitating.

"Hey, I live here," she insisted. "I need to know what's out there."

Green eyes studied hers a little longer. "Wolf." He finished off the broth.

Heat burned through her neck and face now, but this time without the accompanying ripples in her stomach. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

He lowered his mug, eyes wide and innocent.

"Those claw marks are spaced way too far apart to be a wolf. They're too deep to be a wolf. And wolves don't claw things; they bite." Her voice rose steadily as she picked up steam. "Oh, and wolves only have four claws, but whatever attacked you had five. Bears have five. Wolverines have five. But the spacing is too big for a wolverine, and I don't see how one could have inflicted that wound unless you were kneeling or on your back."

He squinted at her. "Okay. So maybe it was a bear and I just didn't see it very well."

She glared at him. "It wasn't a bear. A bear would have ripped your lung out with a swipe like that."

He sat calmly, head tilted back, bottom lip pushed up into the top one. "Wow. You sure know a lot about forest creatures."

She fought the urge to smack him. "More than you, obviously, Mr. _Hunter_."

He nodded as if in agreement. He knew that she knew he was lying through his teeth, but he obviously didn't care. For some reason, that pissed her off more than anything else.

Her words burst out with more force than she'd anticipated. "Why are you lying to me about _everything?_ After I saved your life?"

His smart-ass expression evaporated. A quiet intensity took its place. "Because you saved my life. Because it's better for you not to know."

Just as surely as she'd known he was lying about his name, lying about what attacked him, she knew he was telling the truth now. In his green eyes, the flexing corners of his jaw, she read only sincerity—and a hint of sadness. He was trying to protect her. From what, she had no idea.

Her anger drained away. Her curiosity was off the charts now, practically eating her alive, but she wouldn't push him anymore. She exhaled and tried to release the built-up tension in her body. "Okay," she nodded at the mysterious stranger who'd wrecked her plans for quiet and seclusion. "You win, Chrissy. No more questions."

This time, the corners of his mouth tugged upward. He glanced down into his empty mug, then held it out toward her. "Did you say something about beef stew?"


	5. Chapter 5

Dean shoveled another mouthful of stew into his mouth and moaned. "Thiff iv amaving." He squeezed the words around a big chunk of tender beef.

Ruthie sat in the brown recliner to the right of the bed, eating her stew with considerably better manners. She beamed at the compliment. "It's my dad's favorite." She flinched, then looked down into her bowl.

Dean stirred his own stew, giving her a moment of privacy.

Soon, she smiled again. "He was a terrible cook. He'd mess up Hamburger Helper. I figured out pretty young that if I ever wanted good food, I'd have to make it myself."

"So you taught yourself?"

She nodded. "With a lot of trial and error."

"Well, here's the thing: I can see vegetables in here. And I don't even care." He took another giant bite and closed his eyes while he chewed. "Sam will be jealous. He's been trying to get me to eat vegetables for years."

She raised her head, a sudden spark of interest in her eye. "Sam? Is he your brother?"

 _Damn_. Her cooking was making him careless. No more slip-ups. He gave her a brief nod, as though this wasn't important information. "How about you? Brothers? Sisters?"

She shook her head. "I'm an only child."

"Mom?"

"She died when I was little. It was always just me and Dad."

For a minute, it was quiet, just the sounds of their spoons scraping their bowls. Dean had been alone before. He knew how it felt. He didn't wish it on anyone. "But you've got people, right? A life to go back to? Friends? A boyfriend?"

She gave a tiny start, and her eyes jumped to his. _Damn again._ He didn't mean it that way.

Her face went all deer-in-the-headlights for a few seconds. Then she shook her head, and went back to staring at her bowl. Dean waited, but apparently that was her answer.

"So, you're not working now? Gonna start job hunting soon?"

She shrugged.

He set his bowl aside. "Hey, listen. I've lost people too, okay? It sucks. It's the worst. But you can't just shut everybody out. It won't help, trust me. You know people in Boise. You should give them a call; let them help you."

She raised her face to meet his gaze. He wasn't prepared for the fierce set of her jaw or the blaze in her eyes. "Let me ask _you_ something, Christina. Am I in danger?"

"What?"

"You're so eager to tell me how to live my life, but you won't tell me who or what attacked you _in my backyard_. As though I'm safer not knowing. As though someone or something is going to come looking for you. So I want to know: am I in danger?"

Yes _._ Of course she was in danger. She was helping Dean Winchester. When did that work out well for anyone?

As she watched his face, her expression softened. In a quieter tone, she asked, "Are _we_ in danger?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "It's possible, yeah."

She took a shaky breath and sat back in her chair. "You're not…you're not some drug lord or violent felon or something, are you? Am I going to be arrested for harboring a wanted criminal?"

That put a half smile on his face. "No. You're not. I'm not." He had been on the FBI's Most Wanted list once or twice, but she didn't need to know that.

She nodded and took another slow breath.

"You know, we'd be safer if I had my gun."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I've got my dad's shotgun."

"That's good. But my gun is better."

She crossed her arms and raised one eyebrow. "Is that so? You're saying a pistol is a better close-quarters defensive choice than a twelve gauge, Mr. Hunter?"

This girl was full of surprises. "Not usually. But this time, yeah. My gun is better."

She frowned at him, and he could almost see the gears turning in her head, trying to crank out a scenario where what he'd just said made any sense.

Suddenly, her eyes flew wide open and she leaned forward. "Ooh! I know. You need your special gun because you're hunting a werewolf, and it's loaded with silver bullets."

Dean froze. Had she been toying with him this whole time? Was she about to wolf out? Never taking his eyes off her, he went over the room again in his mind, searching for weapons: the lamp, the mug, probably knives in the kitchen. If she didn't rip his throat out before he got there.

A giggle bubbled out of her. "Jeez, Chrissy, relax. I was joking. Stop looking at me like I'm a psycho."

It took a second for that to register. She was staring at him now. He forced a chuckle. "Right. Funny. Sorry, guess I'm a little on edge. I'd probably be less jumpy if I had my gun."

She rolled her eyes and stood up. "Do you want any more stew?" She came to the bed and held out her hand for his empty bowl.

"No, I'm good." He picked up the bowl and held it out to her. Right as she reached out to take it, he grabbed her hand. She jumped and tried to pull away, but he held on tight. No claws came out. No long canines. No yellow eyes. Dean exhaled, satisfied she wasn't a werewolf. "Ruthie. Listen to me. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't need my gun to do it." He gestured at his torso with the bowl. "Even like this."

"Let me go," she said, voice steady.

He released her hand and held his up. "Okay."

He expected her to back away fast, but she stayed where she was, sizing him up. He set the bowl down and tried again. "You said I need rest, right?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes," she answered slowly.

"Well, I'm never unarmed, okay? Not ever. And I'm telling you right now I'm not sleeping a wink if I don't have my gun."

She stood there looking at him in that way of hers he already recognized. Like she was taking him apart and then examining each piece one by one. It made him feel even more naked than he already was. He wanted to look away, but forced himself to keep looking back into those dark brandy eyes.

Just when didn't think he could stand another second, she threw her hands in the air and made an exasperated noise. "I can't believe I'm even considering this!" she half-shouted.

He had her. _Time to pour on the charm, Deano._ He put on his most irresistible smile. "Come on, Ruthie. You can trust me."

Now she looked at him from eyes wide with incredulity. "Oh, sure." She gave him an acidic smile. "I trust you, you trust me. We're a happy family, Bobby John Campbell."

The way she spat the phony names at him felt like a verbal slap—one he probably deserved.

Maybe it was a moment of weakness. Maybe it was because he already felt alone enough out here in this damned wilderness without Sam. Maybe it was because he hadn't had a meal that good in a couple years. Or maybe he wanted her to give him a real smile instead of this caustic one that stung him from feet away. Maybe it was all of the above. He lost the goofy grin, looked her in the eye, and said, "My name is Dean Winchester. Me and my brother, Sam, we track down bad guys. Guys who hurt people. And we stop them." Her eyes and mouth went from narrow to round as he spoke. He kept going. "There's some stuff I can't tell you, and you wouldn't believe me even if I did. But I can tell you this: I'm not gonna hurt you. And the guy who did this—" he swept a hand in front of his left side "—if he does come back, I will protect you. You have my word."

Then he waited. He waited while she did her eye detective thing, wondering if he'd cried wolf too many times for her to believe him now. A taut minute slipped by. Then she gave him a slow nod.

"Okay, Dean." She reached down and retrieved his empty bowl and spoon from the bed, and without another word, went to the kitchen and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Then she disappeared into the little hallway, returning a minute later with his .45 in hand. She held it barrel down, index finger stretched across the trigger guard. Like a pro. Daughter of a cop, she'd said. She turned the barrel toward the wall and held it out to him, grip first.

He reached out, took it from her, and held it a moment. The cool ivory against his palm really did help him breathe easier. "Thank you." He set it on the bedside table. "Your dad teach you?"

She nodded.

An aroma he hadn't noticed before suddenly wrapped around him: a bakery smell, fruity and sweet and pastry-like. His mouth started watering despite his full stomach. "Ruthie, what is that smell?"

"Oh. When I took the stew out of the oven, I put in a pie. It should be done soon."

"Pie?"

"Uh-huh. Apple."

Dean swallowed. "You made pie? Homemade apple pie?"

"Yep. Dad's other favorite. I finished laying the top crust just before I found you." She paused, forehead wrinkled, looking at him in concern. "Dean? Are you okay?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, of course. I'm good."

She didn't look convinced. "You looked like you were about to cry."

"What? No. That's—no. I'm fine. Just getting tired."

"Oh. Okay. Well, let me turn the light out. I'll be quiet so you can get to sleep." She reached for the lamp.

"Wait." He held out an arm to stop her. "Could I maybe have a piece of that pie first? You know, if my nurse says it's okay?"

He got the real smile he'd been waiting for.


	6. Chapter 6

Morning sun filtered through the blinds and onto the patchwork quilt. Dean squinted and rolled over. The recliner was empty, and silverware clinked in the kitchen: Ruthie was already up. He pushed himself up on one elbow. At the foot of the bed lay a neatly folded pile of clothes. A black t-shirt and a long-sleeved flannel sat on top of his freshly washed jeans.

"Good morning," Ruthie said from the kitchen. She nodded at the clothes. "You dress a lot like my dad."

"He had good taste." Dean paused. "Are you sure you're okay with me taking these?"

She opened a carton of cream and poured some into a saucepan on the stove. "People always said he'd give anyone the shirt off his back. Yeah, I'm sure."

This girl had just lost her dad, and apparently her job, too. But here she was, taking care of a total stranger, feeding him, giving him her dad's clothes. He hadn't handled his own dad's death quite as well. Sitting there in bed, his arms could still feel the reverberations of metal smashing glass, iron denting steel. He'd taken his anger and grief out on the Impala.

Ruthie's voice pulled him back into the present. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a drunk baby."

Ruthie laughed. Her laugh sounded like comfort, like the taste of apple pie. He made a mental note to try and make her laugh again.

She filled a large bowl at the sink, laid a washcloth over the rim of the bowl, and headed toward the bed. She set the basin and a bar of soap on the side table, and took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Let's see how you're looking." While she leaned over him, carefully peeling back the gauze, he noticed how the yellow sweater she was wearing brought out a hint of gold in her eyes. Almost like the spokes of a wheel, the gold radiated out through the dark brown.

She glanced over at him, and he quickly dropped his gaze.

"There's a bit of red here," she said. "It's probably just inflammation, but I want to get you on antibiotics as soon as we can get to town, just to be safe."

"You're the expert."

She stood up. "You can't submerge in water, but we need to keep the whole area clean and dry." She gestured at the bowl. "So this is your shower. Get cleaned up and dressed; I'm going to shovel the front walk."

Dean sat up and threw his hands out to the sides. "What's a guy gotta do to get a sponge bath around here?"

"Be unconscious and hypothermic," came the dry reply as she disappeared into the hallway.

He heard Ruthie stepping into her boots. A door opened, and a cold draft breezed through the cabin while she shoveled a place to stand on the front porch. He waited until the door closed, cutting off the chilly breeze. Dean pushed the covers back, gingerly turned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and started washing up. When he was finished, he took more gauze and tape from the side table and covered the stitches again. Ruthie had made it look easy, but he felt clumsy trying to hold the gauze in place while managing the tape. In the end, the gauze was crooked and there were lumps in the tape, but it would do.

Pulling on his jeans sent darts of pain through his side, but he didn't feel any of the cuts reopen. The t-shirt was trickier, but he managed. It wasn't until he was on the last few buttons of the flannel that he realized how much the process had exhausted him. His whole torso ached, and the room was doing a slow spin. He sat down heavily on the bed just as Ruthie came back inside. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she was a little out of breath.

She beamed at him as she pulled off her heavy coat. "Look at you! I wasn't sure you'd be able to do it."

Dean shrugged, as though it was nothing, and he wasn't about to pass out.

She opened the door to the potbelly stove and added another log to the fire. "Hungry?" she asked.

"What are we having?"

"Hot chocolate and apple pie," she said. "Breakfast of champions."

"My nurse is giving me apple pie for breakfast? Is that what they serve at the hospital?"

"No. But maybe they should." She finished shedding her gloves and hat and headed into the kitchen. "There are a lot of things they don't teach you in nursing school. You learn them from experience. One thing I've learned is that people heal fastest when they're happy." She turned a knob on the kitchen stove and stirred the saucepan. "And I saw you last night. I think you would have come back from the dead for a piece of that pie."

Dean considered this, then shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

"And you haven't had my hot chocolate yet. It's at least as good as the pie."

"Nothing is better than pie." His mouth was already watering. "When you meet Sam, tell him I get to eat whatever I want when I'm injured." His words trailed off at the end. A pang shot through his chest, but it had nothing to do with his wound. He stood, opened the blinds, and peered out into the bright, white-carpeted backyard clearing.

"I'm sure he's okay, Dean. We'll find him."

"Yeah," he replied. Suddenly, he felt he couldn't stand staying here another minute, eating delicious food with a pretty girl while Sam was God knows where. He sat down again and started pulling on his boots, as though that would speed things along.

"Don't you tear those stitches," Ruthie warned, pointing her wooden spoon at him.

A low engine noise reached them, growing louder by the second. Their eyes met, and a little O of surprise on Ruthie's lips spread into a bright smile. "Vern!" She took a large thermos down from a cabinet. "I'm going to give him some hot chocolate. You get your boots on. Then let's go find Sam."

She didn't have to tell him twice. He bent again to tie his laces, ignoring the complaints from his side. The engine noise blared louder when the door opened. He started on his right boot. After a few seconds, the door closed again, and footsteps returned through the hallway.

"I think we should go to the Four Feathers Inn first," Dean called. "That's where we—"

Ruthie wasn't alone.

The wolf had one hairy hand clamped over Ruthie's mouth, its long, thick claws jabbing into her cheek. Its other arm wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides. Its faded gray jacket had a big rip in the sleeve, and was streaked with dirt. Ruthie's body was rigid, her eyes wide and white and glued to Dean.

In one lightning motion, Dean snatched his gun and was on his feet, aiming at the wolf's face—which was half-hidden behind Ruthie's.

The werewolf leered at him through unnatural yellow eyes, baring its revolting yellow teeth. "How's the chest?" it sneered.

"I'll live."

The wolf's eyes glinted. "I wouldn't count on it."

"How'd you find me?" Dean hoped to get it talking, get it distracted. He needed a clear shot.

The monster lifted its nose and took a deep whiff. "Can't you smell it? Your scent? Your blood?" It jerked its head toward the black woodburning stove and grinned. "Smelled like a Winchester barbecue from a mile away."

Ruthie's forehead contracted; her eyes filled. Now Dean hated the thing even more, for making her feel guilty.

"Uh-huh. So what took you so long to get here?" _Keep talking, Cujo._

Its lips curled back, exposing two extra-long canines. "I'm asking the questions," it snapped. "Where's your big brother?"

"I am the big brother."

It ignored him. "I know he's not here; I don't smell him. So where is he?"

Ruthie's eyes had lost their terror-filled glaze. Now they bored into Dean like drills. She tapped two fingers against the side of her leg.

He made eye contact with her for only a second, just long enough to tell her he'd seen, without tipping off the wolf. Not that he knew what she meant. Was she going to try something in two seconds? He hoped not. That werewolf would tear her apart.

Arms still pinned to her sides, Ruthie curled her fingers like claws. She pointed a thumb up at the wolf behind her, then pointed down the hallway, at the front door.

Realization punched him in the gut. There were two of them. Two wolves. She'd seen another one out front.

Two werewolves. One bullet.

Son of a bitch.


	7. Chapter 7

Judging by the contraction of Dean's brows and the grim set of his mouth, Ruthie knew he'd understood her signal. And he was worried. Not reassuring.

Especially when she was being held in an iron grip by this… _thing_. She wasn't even completely sure this was real, that she wasn't having a bizarre nightmare brought on by the stranger she'd let into her house, with all his crazy talk about hunting bad guys—bad guys who could leave foot-long gouges across his chest.

Then the man, creature, whatever it was, squeezed its hairy hand tighter over her mouth, its nails pinching deeper into the skin of her cheek.

No. This was real.

She sucked in an unsteady breath through her nose. When she exhaled, heat rebounded off the creature's hand . It stank like wet dog. She couldn't get enough air; spots formed in front of her eyes, and her gums buzzed. A detached part of her recognized the symptoms of hyperventilation. She ordered herself to calm down.

She pulled her eyes away from Dean's long enough to locate the shotgun: right where she'd left it, leaning against the wall beside the black stove. About eight feet ahead and to her left. It might as well be on the moon. This thing's arms were like a steel cage.

"Sam's meeting me here," Dean was saying. "He's probably outside right now."

Hot breaths came a little faster against her cheek. "You're lying," it said, but doubt tinged its growling voice.

"You think?" Dean said. "You're about to have your paws pretty full. You better let her go."

"So you can shoot me?" it barked. "I don't think so." Its arm tightened around her, squeezing until she could barely breathe, until she was sure her ribs would break. "Drop your gun!"

Dean glared at the thing, gun still leveled at its face. The creature's head moved behind her, sliding slowly down and to the right. Its breath came hot and wet against her neck, and her body went stiff. Two hard, sharp points pressed into the soft skin on the side of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Okay. _Okay!_ " Dean's voice sounded gruff and urgent. She squinted her eyes open a slit. He had turned the .45 to the side and was slowly lowering it. He set it on the bed and straightened again, hands up on each side. "There. Now let her go."

The fangs pulled away; the hot breath receded. Then, with an almost casual flick of its arm, the creature flung her backwards through the kitchen. She smashed into the lower cabinets and landed in a stunned heap on the floor. The force of the impact drove the breath out of her. For several seconds she could only clutch at her chest, making croaking noises, trying to breathe. Dean and the creature were speaking to each other in tense tones, but she couldn't make out the words over the ringing in her ears—not that it mattered. All that mattered was air.

Finally, her lungs seemed to unclench, and she gasped. She coughed, choked, and gasped again, sucking in air as though she'd been held underwater. With the oxygen came clearer thoughts. She needed a plan. Whatever that thing was, it was stronger than any man. It had already hurt Dean once, and now it was back to finish the job. And it wasn't alone. She'd seen the other one, a stocky man—if it was a man—with a beard, in a dark coat, wrenching open the door of the tractor cab, reaching for Vern, the instant before this one grabbed her.

And Dean had put down the gun.

From her spot on the kitchen floor, she eyed the shotgun. She'd have to get eight feet past the monster, pick up the gun, turn and shoot before it caught her.

Not possible.

She couldn't see Dean from down here on the floor. The thing, standing with its back to her, was laughing now, a raspy, animal noise that made her skin crawl.

Ruthie silently pushed herself into a crouch, high enough to see Dean. Steam from the simmering hot chocolate on the stove made his face ripple. He didn't take his eyes off the intruder, but the corner of his jaw flexed. She didn't know if that was supposed to be a signal, or if it was just an involuntary reaction to seeing her. The .45 was still lying on the bed.

"I'm gonna be legendary," the creature was saying. "The werewolf who ended the Winchesters. It's just too bad most of my pack isn't alive to see it."

 _Did he say_ _werewolf?_

"Yeah, sorry not sorry." Dean's voice betrayed nothing, but his whole body was tensed. At his sides, white knuckles stood out from his fists.

The creature—the werewolf—took a step toward Dean. "I'm really gonna enjoy wiping that smug look off your face. I'm gonna take my time. You're gonna watch while I eat your spleen."

Dean made a face. "I'll pass. Don't wanna spoil my appetite. I'm having apple pie for breakfast."

"Kidneys next." The werewolf took another step. "Then liver. I'll save your heart for last. And the girl for dessert."

Dean gave a slow blink, then shook his head as though trying to rouse himself. "Do you always talk your victims to death?"

It didn't respond. Ruthie saw it crouch; Dean shifted his feet apart, bracing himself.

She didn't even think. In one forward leap, she crossed the tiny kitchen and grabbed the handle of the saucepan. The werewolf spun around as she swung the pan at its startled face.

The rim of the saucepan cracked against its forehead; a wave of scalding hot chocolate cascaded over its face, down its neck, everywhere. The wolf yowled and staggered toward her, clawed hands swiping at her blindly.

"Ruthie, get down!" Dean yelled.

She dropped to all fours, and a loud _crack_ filled the little cabin. The werewolf landed on top of her, knocking her flat. She flailed in a panic and it rolled off her. It lay motionless beside her, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Shaking, Ruthie pushed herself to her knees. Dean burst into the kitchen, .45 in one hand and the shotgun in the other. "You okay?" He stuffed the handgun into the back of his waistband, then extended his hand toward her.

She reached up and took it, and he pulled her to her feet. She had no idea how to answer the question. Dazed as she was, she still remembered one crucial fact. "There's another one out there! Don't put your gun away."

Dean looked grim. "I'm empty."

Before she could ask why a professional werewolf hunter was wandering the forest with only a single round in his weapon, the back door burst open, splintered pieces of the door frame flying through the cabin like shrapnel. The dead werewolf's stocky partner growled at them, eyes glowing, protruding teeth bared. Those teeth, as well as its beard, were smeared with blood. The creature glanced down at the floor, at the widening red pool spreading from its partner's corpse. With a howl, it hurled itself at Dean.

A skull-rattling shot reverberated off the cabin's log walls. The werewolf crumpled in midair and crashed onto the floor. Dean pumped the shotgun, then grabbed Ruthie's hand. "Let's go!" He ran to the front door, pulling her along. She managed to grab her truck keys off the hook in the little hallway while he half-dragged her through.

Why was he running like the devil was still at their heels? "Dean—!"

"He said most of his pack was dead. If we missed one, we could've missed others."

Icy air slapped her in the face. Vern's tractor was still parked out front. A spray of bright red splashed the snow on the far side, by the empty cab. Dean headed for her truck, still towing her in his wake. She yanked her hand away, staring at the tractor and the blood.

"Ruthie, we gotta go."

"Vern. I have to see if he's…" she trailed off, taking a step off the shoveled walk into the thigh-deep snow.

Dean caught her arm. "You can't help him."

"I have to know." She tried to keep going, but he held on.

"Ruthie."

She wheeled around, ready to scream at him, but his expression stopped her. Not impatience or irritation, but compassion.

"I'll go. You don't want to see this." He scanned the surrounding woods, glanced back at the cabin, then stepped into the deep snow and pushed his way toward the tractor. He reached the front and went around the side, to where the snow was splashed scarlet. For a moment he stood still, staring at the ground. Then his chin dropped to his chest.

He turned and waded back through his own tracks. Back on the shoveled walk, he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Ruthie took a shaky breath.

"Come on," he said. "I'll drive."

She started to shake her head, to turn toward the driver's side of the truck, but realized her knees felt like water. Her hands trembled; she was quivering all over.

Dean was watching her, waiting for her answer. His face was solemn, but still. Breathing normal. No shaking. Like he did this every day.

She held out the keys.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean shot a sideways glance at Ruthie in the passenger seat. Her face was pale. She stared straight ahead. Six foot walls of snow bordered the road on each side, pushed there by Vern's plow. Poor guy. Dean remembered the small white truck he'd seen behind Vern's tractor when they pulled out of Ruthie's drive. Those bastards must have followed him up the road to her cabin. If he hadn't lost his knife, he would've slashed the tires.

He couldn't decide whether it was a good or bad sign that the werewolf hadn't been able to smell Sam anywhere.

Ruthie's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "So, the bodies that have been turning up in the woods. They were all killed by…werewolves?" She sounded calm, but a tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Dean nodded.

She turned to face him. "And that's why you came here? Because you and your brother are some sort of professional werewolf hunters?"

"Something like that."

"And you really use silver bullets. That's why your gun was better than mine, and why you freaked out when I joked about it."

"Yeah."

She stared at him for a moment, then out at the road again. "Werewolves are real." She seemed to have to force the words out. Then she gave a quick, hollow laugh. "Next you're going to tell me there are vampires and zombies, too."

He said nothing. She noticed. He kept his gaze on the road, but he could feel her eyes probing into him like a freaking surgeon. From the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth drop open. Then she sucked in a long, shaky breath and blew it out slowly. "Holy crap."

He waited a minute, letting her absorb the second earth-shattering revelation of the morning, before asking, "You okay?"

"I don't know. I guess so." She turned to him again. "So do you use garlic and wooden stakes on vampires? Head shots on zombies?"

He wasn't expecting rapid-fire questions. People usually reacted with shock and horror, not curiosity. "Uh, well, there are different kinds of what you'd call zombies. You have to figure out what works on them. Garlic and wooden stakes are myths, though. Vamps you gotta decapitate."

She sat silent, blinking at him for several long moments. "This is the most surreal conversation I've ever had." After another moment of silence, she added, "I keep waiting for you to laugh and point out the hidden cameras or something." She raised her eyebrows at him, apparently still holding on to this one last shred of hope.

He hated to disappoint her. "Sorry."

She took a deep breath and looked at the road again.

Her turned-up nose and top lip made her appear cheerful, even when her world was being turned upside down. A familiar, sour surge of guilt washed through Dean's stomach. "No, really. I'm sorry." He squeezed the steering wheel tighter. "I brought this mess—my mess—right to your doorstep. I screwed up and nearly got you killed. Got your friend killed." He clenched his teeth. "I'm supposed to save people. I'm sorry."

She sat quietly, studying his face until he squirmed in his seat. Finally, she asked, "Are you always this hard on yourself?"

"Didn't you hear me? I screwed up."

"How? You're here. You came here and put yourself between us and those…monsters. You fought things that nobody even knows exist. You got lost and hurt and nearly killed, all to protect people you don't know, who will never know what you did for them. Don't you think you should give yourself a little more credit?"

He'd heard speeches like this a handful of times over the years, and they usually made him uncomfortable. He was just doing his job. And this time he'd done a piss poor job of it. But somehow, coming from her, it made him feel a little better. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, but didn't say anything. She didn't seem to need a response. They rode on in silence.

Dean watched the roadside carefully, looking for a particular spot where the pine trees gave way to smaller bushes and scrub. After a few more minutes making their way down the slick road, he pulled over alongside the wall of snow thrown up by Vern's plow.

"What are you doing?" Ruthie asked.

"This is where we left the car. Stay here." Dean grabbed the shotgun and jumped out, trying to ignore the shrinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach. No glimpse of shiny black anywhere. If the Impala was here, she was buried.

He walked toward the spot he'd noticed: an area where the wall of snow had cratered in. It was in the right spot off the side of the road, and it looked like there could have been a car there. He climbed the snow pile, but didn't feel anything hard underneath when his feet sank deep into the powder. He tested several spots by poking the shotgun barrel down into the snow, but found nothing.

Baby was gone.

He went back to the truck and climbed in. Ruthie looked at him, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

"How long would a car have to sit here before they'd tow it?" Dean asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe a day or two."

Dean pressed his lips together and started back down the road.

"Hey," she said, "this is good, right? This means Sam got out of the woods."

He hoped she was right, but he'd also thought he and Sam were hunting down the last werewolf of the pack. Making assumptions rarely worked out well in this line of work. All he knew for sure was that Sam wasn't here, and until he found the Impala, he was out of silver bullets.

Also, rushing Ruthie out of the cabin and climbing around on that snow pile hadn't done him any favors. He winced at the lancing pain skidding along his side and chest.

"If you ripped those stitches, so help me…" She didn't finish her threat. Instead, she leaned across the cab and pulled up his flannel and t-shirt to check.

"Hey, I'm driving! Get off me."

She ignored him. "You're bleeding again. Dammit, Dean."

"Yeah, real sorry about that." He swatted her arm away. "Next time we're attacked by werewolves I'll make sure to stay in bed so I don't tear my stitches."

She kept ignoring him. "When we get to town, we'll get you checked in somewhere so you can lie down before you reopen any more of them. I'll go to the pharmacy for supplies and antibiotics; then I can make a report at the station and ask about Sam."

He took his eyes off the road long enough to look over at her, to see if she was being serious. "Look, Ruthie, you don't know me very well, so let me explain something. Sam is my family. Okay? He's it. And he's been missing for almost twenty-four hours. I'm not doing _anything_ else until I find him. We clear?"

Her dark eyes held his gaze until he had to look back at the road. "Okay."

"Good." He had expected her to put up a fight. "And what do you mean by 'make a report?'"

She gave him a quizzical look. "I don't know how professional werewolf hunters deal with this sort of thing, but there are three bodies at my house. If I don't want to end up in jail, I have to report it."

"Two bodies. And what are you planning to tell the cops? That it was werewolves?"

Her eyebrows squeezed together. "What do you mean, two bodies? Are you forgetting Vern?"

There, in her tight voice, was the fight he'd expected. "I'm not forgetting Vern."

"But—" her eyes widened. "You don't mean the second one? You hit him from four feet away with a twelve gauge! I saw him go down."

"It wasn't silver. He'll heal."

She stared at him for a second, then sat back in her seat. "Holy crap," she breathed.

"We find Sam. Then we'll go back up there. Him and me, we'll take care of the body. After that, you can tell the cops about Vern. They'll say it was wolves."

"Okay. So, if we're not going to the cops, where do we start? Where would Sam go?"

"We got a room at the Four Feathers Inn. He might've gone back there to look for me. We'll start there." He pulled out his phone and checked it. "Once I can get a damn signal, I'll try calling him."

The woods on either side began to thin, and cabins appeared along the roadside. Soon, they came to a stop sign—the edge of town. The road was better cleared now, and more buildings rolled past. They'd be in the heart of town in another minute.

"You should have a signal now," Ruthie told him.

She was right. His heart sped up as he pulled out his phone and hit "Sam."

Straight to voicemail.

"Damn it!" His yell made Ruthie jump.

 _Beep._

"Sammy, where are you? I'm coming to find you, okay? Call me as soon as you get this." He stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

They passed the tiny library and the police station, and soon pulled up to the only stop light in town. He turned right, into the little parking lot of the Four Feathers Inn. Directly across the parking lot sat the town's one pharmacy.

The Impala wasn't there.

His already tense muscles stiffened even more. He parked in front of their room, jumped out of the truck, and headed for the door, leaving Ruthie behind. He unlocked it and stepped inside. "Sam?"

No answer.

Dean checked between the beds and in the bathroom anyway. Then he searched the beds, the tiny kitchen, the little table, the bathroom sink, for any clue. But there was nothing out of place. No sign that Sam had been here since they'd left early yesterday morning.

He tried Sam's cell again. No answer. He threw his phone onto the bed.

He sank down onto the end of the bed and raked both hands through his hair. He'd been trying so hard not to picture Sam, cold and stiff in the forest, frozen to death under some snow drift. Now he couldn't get the image out of his head.

"Dean?" Ruthie was standing in the open doorway.

The broken record in his head came out in a broken voice. "I gotta find him, Ruthie. I gotta find my brother."

She took a few steps inside. "We will. We'll find him." She glanced back over her shoulder. "Listen, I was just over at the pharmacy. I asked about Sam. And this guy I've never seen before got all interested when he heard me say 'Winchester.'"

"You used our name?" Dean stood up.

Ruthie didn't seem to notice his concern. "Yeah, he wanted to know if I knew you, and especially if I knew where you were. I know you're a big secret-keeper, Chrissy, but—" she gave him a sheepish grin "—he was super cute, so I invited him over. Hope you don't mind."

Dean's hand was already on the .45, drawing it, before he remembered it was empty. He'd left the shotgun in the truck.

He rushed at the door to close and lock it, but a huge shadow fell across the entry. Then the body it belonged to filled the doorway.

Dean skidded to a stop, ready to fight for his and Ruthie's lives. He braced himself, but not enough.

He was looking up into the pale, haggard, relieved face of his little brother.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sam?"

"Dean!"

In one stride, Sam was inside, hugging his brother. While they embraced, Ruthie put her hand to her mouth and tried to swallow the hard lump in her throat.

She'd known it was Sam, of course. She would never have told some random person about Dean. She wasn't an idiot, even though he seemed to assume she was. Sam had come into the pharmacy while she was talking with the pharmacist. He looked exhausted, shaggy and stiff, baggy eyes and scruffy whiskers. Like someone who'd been up all night, worrying. He'd set off all her Spidey senses. She'd gone right up to him and asked if his name was Sam. The sudden rush of color that had flushed his drawn face when she'd told him Dean was okay, the spark that lit his eyes from inside…she wouldn't forget it any time soon.

She probably should have put Dean out of his misery immediately, but she just couldn't help teasing him. He made it so easy.

Besides, it felt like so long since she'd had anyone to tease. Or talk to at all, for that matter.

Sam released Dean and shut the door. "So where were you? What happened?"

Ruthie grabbed the bag of supplies she'd bought at the pharmacy. "You can interrogate him while I patch him up, okay? Dean, sit down." She punctuated the order with a jab of her finger toward the nearest bed.

Sam's eyebrows arched high on his forehead, and he watched for Dean's response.

"Bossy, isn't she?" Dean said. But he obeyed.

Ruthie helped Dean out of the flannel and then, more carefully, the black t-shirt. He winced as the fabric grazed his chest. Ruthie stripped off his clumsy tape and pulled away the bloodied gauze.

Sam stepped forward, his forehead creased now. "Oh my God, Dean." His eyes snapped from the five red furrows to his brother's face. "Did it—?"

"Bite me? No."

Ruthie used a cotton pad to soak up the blood oozing from four ripped stitches, trying to keep her fascination from showing on her face. These guys were _werewolf hunters._ Oh, and vampire and zombie hunters. A shiver shook through her, and Dean looked up questioningly. "Chilly," she lied.

"Tell me you got it," Sam said.

"I got it. About an hour ago."

Sam frowned.

Dean started at the beginning, and for the first time, Ruthie heard how he'd ended up unconscious in her back yard. While he spoke, she cleaned the dried blood off him again. Stitched his laceration again—this time with unwaxed dental floss. She couldn't recall any other patient with such a high tolerance for pain. He seemed barely to notice the in and out of her needle, the floss drawing his torn skin tight over the deep slashes. The constellation of scars scattered across his arms and torso suggested that pain was a regular part of his life. He'd have impressive new ones added to the collection now.

"By the time I woke up in her cabin, the storm was over. I was stuck there."

Ruthie glanced up from positioning fresh gauze over Dean's chest. Sam was looking at her.

"Yeah," he told Dean. "I bet you were miserable."

"Hey, all I wanted the whole time was to find you." Dean jerked his head at Ruthie. "Tell him."

"It's true," she said, and Dean gave his brother a smug look. She smoothed on the last of the tape, took a seat on the edge of the bed, and gave Sam a smirk of her own. "Although it didn't seem to affect his appetite."

Sam's eyes widened, and his head swiveled to Dean.

"She means food, Sam! Food. She's a good cook, okay? Starving myself wasn't going to help you." Dean stood, marched across the room to his bag, and started pulling out clothes. "So where were you anyway? You look like hell."

Sam crossed his arms. "I looked for you for hours. When you didn't show at the end of the ravine, I went up the south side. The snow hid all your tracks. So I went back to the car, but you weren't there. By then it was too deep to go look for you anymore. I had to stay in the car for the rest of the day. And night. I had to shovel around the exhaust pipe every twenty minutes while it snowed so I could run the engine once in a while." He paused, as though giving Dean a chance to say something, but Dean gingerly pulled a white tee over his head and said nothing. "This morning a plow came by—well, a tractor. The guy cleared a path for me to get back on the road."

Ruthie's throat squeezed tight. Her eyes met Dean's for a moment, then his gaze dropped to the floor.

Dean pulled on a red flannel, and addressed Sam again. "Well, I'm just glad you weren't out in the woods all night."

"Oh, yeah. It was great. I just froze in the car for nineteen hours, worried the whole time that you were stuck out in the woods." He gave Dean a tight-lipped smile. "I'm so relieved you were in a nice warm cabin. Eating delicious food." He raised his chin toward Ruthie. "With her."

Dean waved a hand over his chest and side. "Yeah, Sam, I got off real easy this time."

"You still didn't tell me how you caught it."

Dean buttoned his shirt, looking down at his hands as he spoke. "It found us. They found us."

Sam unfolded his arms. "They?"

"We missed one. There were two left—that we know of. I got the first one after Ruthie gave it a hot chocolate shower. You should've seen her." He glanced over at her from his buttoning, one corner of his mouth tugging upward.

Warm tingles skittered through her belly. She pressed a hand to her stomach, then pulled a prescription bottle from her bag of supplies and shook out a pill. She held it out to Dean. "Here, take this. Antibiotic. I called in some favors with the pharmacist." She dropped it into his open hand, and he swallowed it without water.

"And the second?" Sam prompted.

"I'll tell you the rest on our way," Dean said. "We've got cleanup. Let's gear up."

Both men headed for the door. Ruthie stood to follow.

"We got this," Dean told her. "You stay here."

"What? No."

He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You don't need to see that again. Any of it."

He was giving her the chance to be alone, and wasn't that what she'd been longing for? Wasn't that what she'd decided she needed, after everything that had happened last month? She really didn't want to see the red-splashed snow again, or the creature on her kitchen floor.

And yet, what she wanted now, more than anything, was not to be alone. More specifically, she wanted to stay with this fascinating, infuriating character right out of a YA fantasy novel, and his giant little brother. She wanted to learn everything about their impossible lives and watch them bicker like an old married couple. She wanted to help them, so she could see that impressed tug of Dean's mouth again, that spark brighten Sam's eyes.

She started to protest, but he cut her off.

"The second one could still be close by."

"Or it could be in town already. It could have spotted my truck."

His lips parted and his green eyes darted at the open door Sam had already exited.

"It could be watching the room right now, Dean."

He frowned and shifted, putting himself between her and the door. She was sure he didn't even realize he'd done it. He was so easy to read sometimes.

"Alright. Come on."

She followed the brothers across the parking lot toward the pharmacy. They led her to an old black Chevy with snow still piled on the hood and roof. Dean started sweeping snow off the trunk with his arm.

"Impala," she said. "'67?"

Dean straightened up, looking a little surprised. "Yeah, that's right."

"She's beautiful."

He beamed as though she'd just complimented his newborn baby. "She is, isn't she?" He popped the trunk, and her jaw dropped.

"What _is_ all this stuff?"

He grabbed a box of ammo, and Sam took a scary-looking knife. "Tools of the trade."

"What's that?" She pointed at the weird white symbol painted over the inside of the trunk door.

He glanced at Sam. "That's probably a story for another time."

"Come on, Chrissy. I can handle it."

Dean slammed the trunk closed. Sam raised an eyebrow, and his lips curved. "Chrissy?"

"Story for another time," Dean repeated. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10

"Shouldn't we take my truck?"

Dean stopped with his hand on the driver's side handle and half-glared at Ruthie. Had he misjudged her? What was her problem with Baby?

She seemed to shrink under his gaze. "What? I just thought it would be better on the snow."

"She's right, Dean," Sam said. "I'm lucky I made it down."

Dean glanced from one of them to the other. "Alright," he said. "I'll drive." As the other two headed back toward the truck, he gave his car a comforting pat. "Sorry, Baby. I'll be back soon."

Ruthie took the back seat of the cab and Sam rode shotgun. As Dean revved the engine, Sam turned to face Ruthie. "I meant to tell you, thank you." He jerked his shaggy head toward Dean. "For taking care of him."

She nodded. "You're welcome. I'm just glad I found him in time."

Dean pictured himself, lying there on the ground, slowly being buried alive under feet of snow. He resettled himself in his seat to disguise a shiver. He really was lucky she'd found him. Then a new question popped into his head. "How did you get me inside?"

"I used the wheelbarrow."

Sam swiveled toward Dean with an open-mouthed grin. "She put you in a wheelbarrow?"

Ruthie shrugged. "I didn't have a lot of options."

Sam threw his head back and laughed. "I can see it. Oh, man. You have to reenact it when we get there."

"Or not." Dean jabbed the radio's power button. The signal wasn't great, but the melody of "More Than a Feeling" was unmistakable. A smile pulled at his mouth. Eyebrows raised, he looked at Ruthie in the rearview again. "Boston, huh?"

She lifted her chin. "My daddy raised me right."

"Yes, he did." Dean grinned and turned up the volume. Before long, even Sam joined in their enthusiastic, off-key singalong.

As they approached Ruthie's cabin, though, the mood in the cab grew solemn. Dean turned down the radio. "So, Sam, about that second wolf. It might not be there anymore."

"What? Why?"

"I ran out of silver bullets. I hit it with Ruthie's shotgun and got her outta there."

Sam stared at him, then shrugged. "Okay. So we find it."

Dean glanced at Ruthie again. She held his gaze. She seemed okay, so he went on. "The guy who helped you out this morning. His name was Vern. He made it to the cabin. The wolves were there for me. They got him." Dean clenched his teeth and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Like he'd almost told Ruthie: helping the Winchesters rarely ended well for anyone.

After a moment, Sam turned to Ruthie. "You knew him?"

She nodded. "He was a friend of my dad's."

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"Thank you." She swallowed, but did not cry.

Dean let out a quiet breath, surprised at how relieved he felt—at how much he didn't want to see her cry. He cleared his throat. "So, I'm thinking we take care of the one in the house, then we go find his pal, if he's gone. And Ruthie can report finding Vern." He braked and turned the truck onto the snow-covered gravel drive. The small white truck that had been behind Vern's tractor was gone. _Damn._ He should've taken the battery, but he was too focused on getting Ruthie out of there and finding Sam. Now how were they going to find the werewolf?

First things first. They had to get the dead one out of there before the cops came for Vern.

He pulled the truck off to the right, careful to park so that Vern's tractor hid most of the blood spatter from view. He glanced again at Ruthie in the rearview. She kept her eyes averted from the mess, gaze glued to the cabin's front door. As an ER nurse, she must have seen a hell of a lot of blood. But he knew firsthand that it was different when it was a friend. He shut off the engine, then pulled out his .45 and loaded it, just in case. Sam drew his silver knife.

"Okay," Dean said. "Ruthie, stay close."

They piled out of the truck and followed Dean and Ruthie's recent tracks to the front door. It hung several inches open. Dean pushed it wider, and a chilly breeze hit his face. Straight across the cabin from him, the back door dangled off its hinges. Wolf Number Two's work. A little pile of snow had drifted in onto the floor. Dean held his gun out, cleared the tiny laundry room, then stepped through the short hall into the main area. A quick scan revealed no one else was there—besides the body on the kitchen floor. He turned toward it, and froze. Sam and Ruthie followed him into the room, then stopped like he had, all staring into the kitchen at the same thing.

Two words, scrawled in blood across the white refrigerator: "Not Over."

Sam eventually broke the silence. "Well that's…ominous."

Dean tucked the gun into his waistband. "You know me," he said. "Winning friends and influencing people."

Sam and Ruthie both turned to gape at him.

"What? I read. Come on, Sam. Gimme a hand."

Dean's boots made sticky ripping noises as he stepped through the tacky mixture of half-dried blood and hot chocolate on the linoleum. He stooped and gripped the body beneath the shoulders. Sam took the feet. They hoisted it and started toward the back door.

"Dean, if you rip those stitches again…" Ruthie warned.

He paused and raised the werewolf's bloody, blistered head and torso a little higher, displaying it for her. "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like to do this?"

Her lips twisted and she crossed her arms. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Burn it," Sam said.

On his way out the door, Dean saw her crouch down and start digging through the cabinets, pulling out spray bottles and rags.

By the time he and Sam had hauled the body through the snow into the woods, found enough dryish firewood, and gotten the fire blazing, the daylight was fading. They hadn't come up with any great ideas for tracking the remaining wolf. They could have Ruthie mention the little white truck to the police and hope for a lead. They could wait a few days and listen for any more kills. They could drive around town looking for it, but he doubted it had stuck around. They'd wiped out its entire pack. It would get reinforcements before trying to fight them again, the sonofabitch.

Satisfied that the body was going to thoroughly burn, he waded behind Sam through their tracks back toward the cabin. Up ahead, two wooden wheelbarrow handles stuck out from a drift by the back door. He imagined her struggling to get him into it, then wheeling him across the clearing, arms and legs dangling over the edge, swinging around with every bump. He couldn't blame Sam for laughing. Smoke puffed from the chimney—Ruthie had started a fire. Through the broken door, he glimpsed her bustling around in the kitchen, ponytail swinging.

"Dean!"

He nearly ran into Sam, who had stopped and turned to face him. "What?"

"Where were you? I've been talking to you. And what were you smiling about?"

"Nothing. I wasn't."

Sam shot a skeptical glance back toward the cabin. "Okay, sure. Anyway, I was saying, we can't stay here."

Dean frowned at his brother. "Why would we stay here?"

"I mean none of us can stay here. _She_ can't stay here."

A single moment of confusion gave way to rapid-fire images: The werewolf with its arms locked around Ruthie, its fangs at her throat. The back door exploding open. The husky, bearded, second wolf and its glowing, hate-filled eyes. Blood-red graffiti, so out of place in her tidy kitchen. "Not Over."

Sam was right. She couldn't stay here. Not until it was over. Not until she was safe.

He set his jaw and nodded at Sam, who gave him a single nod in return.

Before they reached the cabin, a rich, meaty smell wafted out to greet them. Sam's stomach rumbled like a diesel engine, and his long legs churned faster through the snow.

"Whoah there, Usain," Dean said, but Sam just sped up.

By the time Dean stepped through the doorway, Sam was hunched over a steaming bowl at the little table, shoveling beef stew into his piehole. Ruthie stood by the stove, ladling stew into another bowl. The floor and refrigerator were spotless.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing to the empty chair at the table.

He shut the door behind him as best he could with the broken hinges. Plenty of icy air still flowed through the gap, but the potbelly stove was putting out so much heat that the cabin still felt cozy. He took a seat, and Ruthie set a big bowl of beef stew in front of him.

"Thanks. I'm starving."

Sam made a scoffing noise and dropped his spoon into his empty bowl. " _You're_ starving? I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Ruthie took Sam's empty bowl and headed to the stove, where she started filling it up again. Dean took a big bite and closed his eyes while an involuntary moan escaped.

Ruthie laughed. "I think that's the same sound Sam made."

Sam looked up at her and reached with eager hands for the bowl she offered. "Thank you. It's really, _really_ good."

"Told you," Dean mumbled through another mouthful. "What do you put in this? Crack?"

Ruthie just smiled while she filled her own bowl, then perched cross-legged on the end of the bed. The three of them ate in contented silence.

He and Sam finished at the same time. Ruthie hopped up and took their dishes to the sink.

Dean decided now was as good a time as any to tell her. He braced for a fight. "Listen, Ruthie, as long as that thing is still out there and pissed, you can't stay here."

She didn't even look up from rinsing the dishes. "I know."

He and Sam exchanged surprised glances.

"Okay. Good. So you'll go back to Boise until we kill it."

Now her eyes shot up to his face. "No!" Her cheeks colored, and she ducked her face down again to the sink. In a softer, but strained voice, she said, "I'm not going back there."

Sam's forehead wrinkled, and he looked to Dean for an explanation. Dean shook his head and shrugged.

Sam turned toward Ruthie. "So where will you go?"

Her mouth opened; she looked up first at Sam, then Dean. Then her mouth closed again and she turned away. She went to the oven and pulled out the leftover pie. Sam shot him another puzzled look, and they waited while she took down plates and fussed over the pie. Soon, she came to the table and set big slices of warm apple pie in front of each of them. Sam hesitated, but Dean dug in. Ruthie went back to her spot on the foot of the bed and sat down, hands in her lap, before taking a deep breath. "I was thinking I should stay with you."

Dean stopped chewing, and Sam paused with a bite halfway to his mouth. She sat quietly, waiting.

Dean managed to swallow his bite. "That's…really not a good idea."

"Why not?"

He looked to Sam for help, but Sam was pretending to be focused on his pie.

"Well, for starters, we're on the road a lot. Like, most of the time."

Her dark eyes brightened with curiosity. "Where are you when you're not on the road?"

His first instinct was to hedge, to tell her he just meant they stayed in motels. But if he'd learned anything in the past thirty hours, it was that it was pointless to lie to her. He sighed. "Kansas. There's a bunker—"

"A bunker?" She sat up straighter.

He'd really gotten her attention. Sam's too. His brother was staring holes into him even while eating his pie. He needed to nip this idea of hers in the ass.

"Look, Ruthie, it's not gonna happen. Me and Sam, we're hunters. It's hard, but mostly it's dangerous, and we're not dragging a civilian into this life." He saw her preparing a comeback and added, "You'd be dead weight."

She flinched. An uncomfortable knot twisted in his stomach, and he looked away. He grabbed his fork, but set it back down. He wasn't hungry anymore. Not even for apple pie.

"Was I dead weight this morning?" Her voice was low but steady as she gestured to the spot in the kitchen where she'd clocked the werewolf with her saucepan. Before he could come up with a response, she went on. "I'll stay out of your way. And I'll be safer with you than on my own, or with anyone else. Nobody else even knows werewolves exist."

"Ruthie—"

"You said yourself that you brought this to my doorstep. Now I have to leave my home, but you can't guarantee it won't find me somewhere else. It left a threat—in blood—on my fridge! Don't you think you have a responsibility to protect me?"

Dean sat with his mouth hanging open. The little cabin now felt like a courtroom, and he was being grilled on the witness stand. Sam, still bowed over his plate, peered up at him, waiting along with Ruthie to see what he'd say.

Ruthie still sat with her hands in her lap, big brown eyes fixed on him. How come it always felt like she was looking into him instead of at him? He shifted in his seat, grasping for a way to get control of this conversation. "Why won't you go back to Boise? What are you running from?"

She stiffened, and her lashes fluttered like wounded butterflies. Her voice came out tight and thin. "That's none of your business."

Dean sat back and crossed his arms. "You want to come with us, live under our protection? Everything is our business."

Her eyes darted to Sam with a pleading look.

"Maybe we can help," he said.

She shook her head. Sam mirrored Dean, folding his arms and waiting for her answer.

Her posture deflated and she looked down at her hands. "You'll think it's stupid." She took a deep breath, then looked up at the ceiling as if deciding how to begin. "I was engaged." She gave her head a little shake. "No, I have to go further back. I grew up here, in this cabin. There aren't a lot of people around. I had one friend. One. Monica. She's been my best friend since first grade." She paused and swallowed, then hurried on. "She was one year ahead of me. My senior year was miserable without her. I couldn't wait to get to college. We were both in nursing school together. She got a job in Boise. As soon as I graduated, we got an apartment together, and I applied at her hospital. She already knew everyone there. It's a small place. Everyone loves Monica. All of her friends became my friends."

Dean glanced over at Sam, but his brother was focused on her story. Dean wondered where she was going with it.

"She was in pediatrics, and I was in the ER. She introduced me to Mike. He's a vascular surgeon. He and I…" Her gaze and her voice dropped. "We got engaged." She blinked several times. "I was happy."

She wiped her palms on her leggings. "Then Dad got sick. I came home to take care of him." Her mouth tightened. "Even before then, I knew something was off with Mike. But I didn't want to believe it. I wanted things to be good, so I pretended they were." She took a shaky breath. "One night when Dad was feeling pretty good, he insisted that I go to Boise to see Mike. I decided to surprise him." Now her arms wrapped around her stomach. Her voice and eyes went dead. "When I knocked at his place, Monica came to the door. Wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else."

Dean looked at Sam, but his brother was staring down at the floor. He couldn't quite believe this was the secret. He couldn't believe that she, the tough-as-nails, don't-give-me-any-BS Ruthie he'd been getting to know, had been run out of town over a cheating fiancé. "Let me get this straight. You won't go back to Boise because of this douchebag and your skank ex-friend?"

"Dean." Sam was giving him his Don't Be An Insensitive Jerk look.

Ruthie grimaced. "It wasn't just them," she said. "After Dad died, I tried to go back to work. By then, Monica had moved in with him. Everyone went overboard trying to act normal around me. It was so obvious and awkward: the big, fake smiles, and how people would suddenly stop talking when I came in. Everyone pitied me. Then they started taking sides. Team Ruthie versus Team Monica. Things got so tense that several nurses quit. I was walking around in a spotlight. It was unbearable."

Dean's blood pressure was steadily rising, but he couldn't tell if he was more angry at the dick who'd cheated on her, or the bitch who'd betrayed her, or at Ruthie for running away. He leaned toward her and raised his voice. "So screw 'em. Why are you hiding here? Go get a new job, meet new people."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Hey, Miss Congeniality. You do realize it's been less than a month since I lost my dad, my fiancé, and my best friend?"

Sam spoke up. "I get it, Ruthie. But don't you think that right now, because of everything that's happened, you might not be thinking clearly? Coming with us isn't going to solve any of your problems."

She shook her head. "There's nothing I'm looking to solve. I've already decided I'm not going back to Boise. If I'm going to start over, it's going to be a fresh start, somewhere else." She stood and paced to the potbelly stove. "I've always had great intuition. I can read people, their motivations, their intentions. That's one reason this has messed me up so much. I didn't see it coming. It shook me. I sort of…I guess I just lost faith in myself." She turned, gaze steady on Sam, and jabbed a thumb at Dean. "Then he showed up."

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise and pointed to himself.

The life that had drained out of her tone while she'd told her Boise story came rushing back. "This shifty guy who had no business being in the woods shows up in my yard, armed, shredded almost in two. I patch him up, and then all he does is lie to me every time he opens his mouth."

She walked toward Sam, eyes sparkling in the dim lamplight. "But in spite of all that, I knew he was good. I just knew." She put her hands down on the table and turned her brown eyes to Dean. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me. I knew when you started telling the truth. I knew I could trust you." She paused, and her voice lowered. "The day before Dad died, you know what he said to me? He said, 'Ruthie, trust your instincts. They're almost always right.'" She looked back and forth from him to Sam. "And my instincts are telling me to stay with you two."

Damn. That was a hell of a speech. Dean eyed Sam, but his brother only looked across the table at him, waiting. So, Sam was leaving the decision up to him. Were they really considering this?

Ruthie seemed to sense his wavering, and pounced on it. "Might come in handy to have your own personal nurse. I can patch you up after your run-ins. And you probably don't have lots of time for housekeeping. I can keep the bunker clean for you."

An image of Ruthie in a French maid costume barged into Dean's mind. He gave his head a small shake, then stole another glance at Sam, who just tilted his head to one side.

"And…" her forefinger tapped the table beside his pie. "I can cook."

#

The Impala idled outside the police station. Dean turned down the radio and asked Sam, "You sure you're okay with this?"

Sam arched one eyebrow at him. "Even if I wasn't, it's too late now."

"Yeah, but are you?"

Sam smiled and shook his hair off his shoulders. "Yeah, Dean. I'm okay with it."

"It's just until we gank that wolf."

"I know."

Ruthie emerged from the station and climbed into the back seat. Her hastily packed bag was in the trunk. "They're going to get Vern," she reported.

Dean guided Baby out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He turned the radio back up just in time to hear, "Here I am, on the road again…"

In the rearview, Ruthie's dark eyes twinkled at him. "Bob Seger, huh?"

He didn't miss a beat. "My daddy raised me right."

She laughed her apple pie laugh, and he grinned.

"So, Ruthie," Sam said. "There's a lot of stuff we should probably fill you in on, but I don't want to freak you out."

Another laugh. "Too late." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Tell me everything."

Sam looked to Dean for approval.

"You heard the lady." She could handle it. He had a feeling she could handle just about anything now.

The highway streamed past and shrank in the rearview behind Ruthie. He relaxed, hands on the wheel, while Sam started her crash course in the Life.

There I go.

Turn the page.

 _To Be Continued_

 _Dear Readers,_

 _I hope you've enjoyed meeting Ruthie and seeing Sam and Dean through her eyes. Please leave a review and let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always welcome. The sequel, Turn the Page, has more angst, action, and suspense. Guaranteed you'll love it, or your money back!_


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